The Untrodden Path
by Makalaure
Summary: In the Years of the Trees, an adolescent Finrod feels an inexplicable pull towards his singular cousin, Maglor, and learns a bit more about himself.
1. Chapter 1

Originally posted on 21/07/2014 and completed on 08/09/2014.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

Thanks to Ugly Duchess for the beta.

The Untrodden Path

Chapter One

The youth sits on the grass beneath a willow tree.

Despite the humid, scorching day he wears leather boots, caked with mud, up to his calves. He is fine-boned, slender as a switch, his overall appearance almost fragile, yet his hands are callused as if they handle weapons, or instruments, or both. The aged book in his fingers is thick – certainly not a practical size to carry around – and he appears utterly absorbed in it, almost as if he is willing himself to think of nothing else. I cannot see his eyes; they are downcast, fixed on the pages of his volume. His expression is neutral, though he has an uneasy air that betrays his moodiness. I wonder what he is doing in this park in the middle of the city, at the height of the afternoon, when Laurelin is at her least merciful.

Curious, I amble over to him. He looks up, still distracted by whatever he has been reading; his gaze is unfocused. "May I sit here?" I ask, and feel myself blush. I hadn't meant to sound so eager. For a moment he looks almost offended, though he hasn't moved a muscle in his thin face; but he shifts his satchel to make room for me in the dappled shade of the willow.

I escaped the palace for company; austere silence – exacerbated by the absence of my mother, who is visiting her father in Alqualondë with my infant brother – and long, empty halls hung with conspicuous portraits of the royal bloodlines, wear on my nerves at times. Findekáno, too, is out hunting in the forests, so I've no one to speak with back home. Tirion, for me, usually offers a relief with its noisy streets and lively music, but it appears this scruffy, Noldorin youth fled from his home – wherever that may be – to ensconce himself in a bubble of solitude. "Yet," I think, determined to be stubborn, "if he truly wanted me away, he'd have said so."

Plumping down cross-legged on the turf, I slide my own bag off my shoulder and fish into it to take out an apple, which I polish assiduously with a handkerchief, half because I am paranoid about dirt, and half because I am nervous to begin a conversation with this taciturn young man. This close, I can make out silver stitching in his stained, periwinkle tunic, scarcely noticeable in the shade, and it glimmers subtly like Telperion's Light on water. I wonder why he would treat such fine workmanship as dispensable; I myself am quite particular about my clothes, and make sure they are never marked with food or filth, though I suppose this is partially due to the way I was brought up.

"Are you a merchant's son?" I say. His fingers twitch on the pages of his book. He raises his eyes to mine. They are disproportionately large in his face, in the manner of an infant's, and unusually dark, the colour of soot. They shroud my view of his _fëa_. I am disturbed. I have never seen the like, for the Eldar typically have eyes pale and clear as the morning sky, as easy to read as Tengwar on a page.

He looks too startled to be annoyed, and I stifle a laugh. Curtly, he says, "No, I'm not. I'm sure I do not look it," and returns his attention to his book. His voice is smooth and rich like dark honey, far beyond his age, and it is my turn to be surprised, for he doesn't seem much older than I am. My own voice cracked some years ago, and though it is usually level, at times it seems as if it has a mind of its own, and bursts out in a humiliating screech. When my music teacher found out, she sighed at me as though it was my fault, and booted me out of the choir at the palace. I was sorry, for singing is my delight, but I am glad to be able to spend more time on my harping.

I say, bolder than before, "What's that book about?"

He releases a long-suffering sigh and wordlessly holds it up so I can see the cover. "_The Dictums of Rúmil_," I read the title aloud, astonished. That text could have stultified the proverbial curious cat. My uncle, Fëanáro, immediately comes to mind. If you talk about scholarship to a dozen people in the palace, you can count on his name cropping up as many times; but chances are you'll hear whispered slights about his arrogance, as well. His brood do not seem much better, from what I've heard, and I've done my best to avoid them. I say, "Why would you read that? Are you studying to be a lore-master?"

He returns in a taut voice, "I already am one."

"You don't look very old. And I thought you might be a bard."

He gives another, shorter sigh, and looks away from me. I don't think he enjoys my company.

Silence lapses between us, and I lean my back against the gnarled bark of the tree. The smell of fresh grass, damp earth, and wildflowers is thick. I can hear the birds chirping, and many insects' lazy hum, characteristic of the hot season. It is routine, a phenomenon that occurs every year at the same time, and I feel the muscles in my shoulders relax with the sense of familiarity.

Growing a little sleepy, I idly pluck a dandelion from the ground, purse my lips, and blow on it; its seeds break off and drift away serenely, as if enjoying the slow pace of summer, and I find myself smiling.

"What did you wish for?" His voice is even, blasé, but even this I gleefully count as curiosity. Yet I am confused. "Am I supposed to wish for something?" I ask. He looks at me at last, appearing equally puzzled.

"I don't usually do this sort of thing; walking about the city on my own," I explain quickly, and he arches a fine eyebrow, the same colour as his unruly, coal-black curls, shorn about his shoulders. "What dull life have you lived?" he says, half-teasingly, and I feel my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I enjoy my life as a prince, though I sometimes wish I could mingle with a crowd less severe, for want of a better term. Games of clapping hands and of plucking petals from flowers are not what my family enjoy or approve of.

"Not dull, really," I reply defensively. "I could teach you half a hundred games concerning sea-shells, if you wish." I am aware of how childish I sound, and mentally kick myself for wanting to impress him. Remembering that my apple is still in my hands, I take a vicious bite out of it, and stare straight ahead.

He looks amused. He hasn't smiled, but his eyes dance like shifting light on grass. "Sea-shells," he muses. He places a faded, fallen leaf between the pages of his book and finally closes it. "You do not appear Telerin. Indeed, I would have thought you hailed from Valmar."

I hesitate, not wanting to reveal my full identity. I am unprepared for stilted speech and for thinly-veiled sycophancy, especially from this intriguing fellow, though he seems hardly the sort for either of those things. I've no proof, but somehow I know he'd rather walk barefoot across fire than speak with a glib tongue. Presently I settle for, "Neither, really. I am, in fact, partially Noldorin."

"Surely not," he returns absently, though his gaze has turned wary.

I hum and turn away from him, and deliberately look up at the sky. It is a bright blue, dotted with flimsy clouds that sail happily along the breeze. My stomach grumbles indignantly, and I quickly finish the rest of my apple with relish, scarcely bothering to taste its sweetness, and wipe my hands on the grass when I am done. Having starved myself for the better part of the day thanks to laziness, I am still hungry, and dig into my satchel to take out a packet of little, frosted carrot cakes – my favourite treat. My mouth waters as I eagerly unfold the broad leaves in which they are wrapped.

I hear a rustle, and turn to see that the young man has taken his own food out of his bag: a metal flask, and something bulky wrapped in hide – it turns out to be an ample piece of chicken-and-egg pie. Surprisingly, he offers it to me, his face still carefully impassive. I am grateful for the gesture, but shake my head. "I don't take meat."

He doesn't argue, and begins to eat the pie with his fingers. I am relieved, because too often folk hear of my quirk and are aghast. "He doesn't eat meat? Not even fish? How does he expect to _grow_?" That I am taller than most people my age doesn't occur to them. In their eyes, I am hardly a man anymore. Not that I care; I merely grow tired of their grousing.

I place the cakes between us, take one, and stuff it into my mouth, heedless of manners. In this park, I am just another citizen, and can act as a fish-monger if I so please. As I finish the last bite I look up. A group of children kick around a leather ball, while two wrestle in the grass, red-faced and grinning, and an erudite-looking woman sits beneath an alder and scribbles fiercely on a chalkboard, her tongue poking out with concentration. Sweat slides down her cheeks, but she doesn't seem to notice. I find myself grinning at the whole sight; I have always found it soothing to be an observer.

The smell of alcohol stings my nostrils, and I realise the youth is holding the flask towards me. I start, for I had thought it contained water or juice. "Is it not too early in the day for wine?"

He withdraws the flask but does not replace the cap. He looks at it thoughtfully. "I suppose so," he says quietly. He takes a swig anyway, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

I suddenly realise how tired he looks. Greyish bags sag beneath his eyes, and his cheeks are paler than they ought to be. He is not just slender, but somewhat unhealthily thin, as if he is overworked and underfed. His lips curve downwards. He is unhappy. I feel an unlooked-for stab of pity for him.

"Is all well with you?"

He flicks his eyes to me, then to his flask.

Shuffling closer to him, I whisper conspiratorially, "Is it a woman?"

"No."

"A man?"

He sputters. "No!"

"Trouble with your family?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"That's because you're so quiet."

He snorts, runs his fingers through his hair. "Quiet," he parrots, and scoffs, as if it couldn't be further from the truth. He stretches and groans, and the bones in his shoulders pop obscenely. Then he sits up straighter and rather obviously attempts to mould his expression into something aloof. I give a wry smile and say, "You know, for a musician – I think you're a musician – you're a terrible performer."

His head snaps to me, and his lips purse. I am taken aback by the shock in his face. "I was only joking," I offer weakly. "What happened?"

He plucks three daisies from the grass, inspects them, and crushes them in his fist before letting them fall. He wipes his nose and confesses in a strained voice, "I am a musician." He drops his gaze, two lines creasing his brow. "I ruined my performance at my father's house a few evenings ago."

My burst of laughter startles him. "That's all?" I say light-heartedly. "It cannot be so bad, then. People understand that mistakes happen." The smile is wiped clean off my face when I see his expression. His eyes are narrowed. He says accusingly, "Are _you_ a musician?"

I stutter. "I...I suppose I am. I have played the harp in my grandfather's house, and have sung in choirs."

"Then, unless you are Elemmírë of the Vanyar – who you are clearly not – you cannot understand." He picks at the fabric of his trousers with a nail. Despite his hard words, I can tell it is not me he is angry with. "My father had invited my grandfather – as well as several high lords and ladies – to a dinner, _specifically_ to show off my supposed skill with the lyre." He grits his teeth, his cheeks flushing, and says in a voice filled with loathing, "I shamed him. I _shamed_ my family. News of my blunder – and gossip that I am not truly an accomplished bard – will be flying across Tirion and Alqualondë in these next few days."

"But why would it, and why would you care even if it did?" I ask, befuddled. "Who are you that high lords, or even commoners, will mind so much? I am sure I would have recognised..." I trail off, suddenly uncertain. We are staring at each other. His lips are pursed, and he regards me with a sceptical expression.

"You," he says shrewdly, "resemble closely Prince Arafinwë, son of Finwë the king." His fingers twitch. "Oh," he says, and gives a dry, monosyllabic laugh, and I find myself growing irritated. "Then you are Findaráto, son of Arafinwë. I was wondering at your manner, and at your garb." He flicks his eyes across my embroidered tunic, as would a painter over a tray of pretty but impractical brushes.

I grit my teeth. I have grown bold in the face of his cockiness, his insolence, and reply, "And you are my half-cousin, Makalaurë, second-born son of Fëanáro." I recognise him now, as an elusive youth I have spotted now and again at festivals and at Grandfather's feasts, often conversing with a tall, russet-haired ellon who must have been his brother. I pause, and say a mite more caustically than I intended, "How like the High Prince to place his son before the eyes of nobility, and flaunt him as he would a carcanet at a masquerade."

Makalaurë – how differently I see him now that I know his name! – blanches, and juts out his chin in a defiant gesture. "How dare you," he hisses. He leans forward, so I can feel his hot breath on my face. "You know nothing of my father, or of me. Take back your words."

"What did your father do when your fingers stumbled over the strings of your harp? Did he cuff your ears, or banish you to your chambers?"

"He did not," Makalaurë returns, though I can tell by the raspberry dusting on his cheekbones that some unpleasant punishment had indeed been meted out. If hearsay be true, Fëanáro would need to give but one lick of his sharp tongue to flay the surface off his son's self-worth.

His following words surprise me. "It is due to my father's encouragement and support that critics say I will soon be among the greatest bards of the Noldor. Do you think I could have pursued my love for music if all my father did was criticise my work and force me to study gem-craft and linguistics? I will gladly suffer a few unkind words from him, for they are nothing compared to all he has given me, all he has done for me." He presses a hand to his forehead. "But I cannot suffer shaming him. It is...ignoble and...and ungrateful of me."

_Honestly, I pity this fellow,_ I think. After a pause, I sigh and shake my head, and say a bit remorsefully, "Do you even know how well our grandfather speaks of you?"

"Probably," he mumbles, still stubborn.

"No, I don't think you do." I raise my eyes to the garden once more, where the children have broken into a race. "I don't think it is possible for him – or anyone in the court of Tirion – to think ill of your talents. Already there is talk of you being a prodigy, but you'd have heard that by now."

He gives a contemptuous snort, and I know I am right.

"People are generally well-meaning," I continue. "And if some take an error of yours as your only defining characteristic, well, more's the pity for them. They are fools."

"And yet it is the fools' gossip that tends to fly," he puts in, though his voice is less rueful than before.

I feel oddly as though I have no control over my tongue, and find myself saying, "In the eyes of the One, and of Manwë and of Varda, you remain a child of love and skill. Does aught else matter?"

He looks at me properly. The heat in his eyes has diminished; in its place is but a soft flame, like that of a taper in a cool, dim chamber. "I know not," he says at length, and wets his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

My voice somewhat gruff from embarrassment, I say, "I apologise for what I said earlier. It was wrong of me to slight you – and your father. I have met him only once, briefly, at a festival several years back, and we did not exchange words. I was but repeating hearsay."

He says, "I understand," too quickly for me to believe that my uncalled-for jibes have been forgiven. He yawns, stretching like a lazy cat, and jumps to his feet. He dusts the seat of his trousers. "I ought to go," he says, as he picks up his satchel and slings it over his shoulder.

I stand up as well, and realise he is taller than me by half a hand's breadth. Surprisingly, this nettles me a bit; I am used to feeling tall. Shaking my head, I smile wryly at my own childishness and ask, "Where will you go? Have you a horse?"

"No. I will go to the palace. The head groom will let me borrow a steed."

"You do this often, then? Running away from your house?"

His shrug is almost imperceptible. "Sometimes."

"And your family does not mind?"

"Usually not, because I tend to inform them first. But I will be in trouble when I go back."

I suddenly start, and my eyes skim his muddied boots and his sweat-stained tunic. "You haven't a horse...You can't tell me you walked all the way to Tirion?" I knew his father's house was situated south of Túna, about a mile away from the city.

Now there is a smug smile playing at the edges of his wide lips. "I did. I began my journey well before the Mingling Hour."

"Oh, it is a hot day!" I ejaculate with exaggerated earnestness, gesticulating with my arms. "And a good way from the outskirts of the city – and this son of the high prince _walks_!"

His cheeks grow alarmingly pink, and his silent titters become a roar from the pit of his belly. He hides his face in his hands, as if he is not used to revealing this side of him to strangers (though I can hardly be called a stranger to him now). I hear a second bray of undignified laughter, and realise it is my own. We are doubled up and cackling like children who have just discovered the joys of scatological humour. Perhaps we look strange. Some of the people in the park are staring at us, their stately feathers ruffled. This only makes us laugh harder, till tears gather at the corners of our eyes and the breath is squeezed from our lungs.

At length we compose ourselves, flushed and grinning, and I say, "I am returning to the palace, as well. Stay a while, won't you, and have some tea."

He shuffles his feet. His eyes dart to the bustling main road sprinkled with pedlars and with passers-by, then back to me.

"We have the peppermint sort," I persist, knowing I am winning this game, "and candied fruits. Perhaps you can remain for supper, and we can share a bottle of good wine from the pantry. Secretly, of course; no need to scandalise my father."

He tilts his head rakishly, teasing me with feigned reluctance. "Grandfather will worry, and will pack me off as soon as he claps his eyes on me."

"He won't send you back hungry, little darling of the court that you are."

"_Oh,_" he returns with exaggerated gratitude, raising his brows. He places his hands over his heart in a droll fashion, like a silly, love-struck boy. "Your powers of persuasion are remarkable, cousin. Very well; I shall let you grace me with your hospitality." He pushes his hands into his pockets and half-turns, as though he expects me to follow him. I feel vaguely amused, considering I am the one who was raised in the city, but in the next moment am distracted by a new thought.

"What about your father?" I ask, damning the concern that laces my tone. Makalaurë pauses, and looks at me inquisitively. "What about him?"

"Will he not be upset with you?"

"He can't be more flustered than he probably is now. Come," he says, "let us go meet Grandfather, and try to avoid our sires till Laurelin wanes."

He begins to stride towards the boulevard. A little dizzy from the quivering heat, I trundle ahead and fall in step beside him. He twirls his hair and gazes at the sky, appearing wistful and boyish, as though the world around him does not exist; the line of his mouth is soft. I smile, adjust the strap of my satchel to a more comfortable position on my shoulder, and listen to a starling that squats in a tree and serenades us with its song.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p>

Notes:

Makalaurë - Maglor  
>Findaráto - Finrod<br>Findekáno - Fingon

Feedback is most appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter 2

A big thank you to my insightful betas, Zopyrus and Ugly Duchess.

Chapter Two

It could be an effect of Laurelin's Light, but I am almost blinded by Tirion's sleek lines and gold accents. At times the city's neat, ordered structure seems boring, and I find myself pondering what the untouched bottoms of the seas look like, or what troves of secrets lie beyond the Belegaer in Ennor. It all seems frustratingly far away.

Makalaurë links his hands behind his head and lifts his chin to observe the gleaming spires of our grandfather's house. Sweat glistens at the hollow of his throat, his garments are stained with filth, and his hair springs from his skull in wisps despite the fact that he'd tied it back firmly during our walk. Yet somehow he retains, even with his slovenliness and his closed, abrupt manner, an air of one who has been raised in splendour, among the finest artists and scholars in Aman. I've seen high lords scrabble for the kind of aristocratic loftiness he embodies, and never attain it.

We reach the tall gates of the palace and are ushered in by two porters, who offer a nod to me and a grin to Makalaurë. The gardens are dotted with neat topiary and fantastic stone sculptures. When I was a child I would pretend the little girl with hooves could talk, and sometimes for hours would sit before her and chatter about the little happenings in the palace: the attendants' gossip, a mare brought as a gift from Alqualondë, a new punishment my tutor had given me for my careless handwriting.

One day, while gesticulating enthusiastically, I accidentally broke off her plump index finger, and stood a moment in stunned silence. There was no warm, stringy flesh, no shard of bone, and though this was vaguely expected, the full realisation that she – it – possessed no _fëa_ struck me as a blow in the gut.

We enter the mercifully cool great hall. I want to usher Makalaurë into my chamber before my family sees us and badgers us with questions, but a booming, happy voice breaks my thoughts as Grandfather comes striding towards us, dressed in fine robes of olive green. "Findaráto!" he exclaims with a large, rather silly grin that would better suit a goatherd than a monarch. "You never said you would go out today! And, look, Makalaurë is here, as well! Fëanáro is probably tearing his hair out with worry."

"Grandfather Finwë," Makalaurë says formally, ignoring the reference to his father and inclining his head in a bow. But Grandfather gathers him up in a fierce embrace, nearly lifting him off his feet. "None of that! I have not seen you in days." He lets a flustered Makalaurë go, takes his face in his tremendous, rough hands, and noisily kisses his cheeks, once on each side. "Grandfather," my cousin repeats in mild reprimand, his voice weak with embarrassment. Grandfather fondly ruffles his dark locks and turns to me.

"Findaráto." His arms envelop me, solid as oak boughs, and I get a whiff of fresh cedarwood. After a moment he lets go and turns back to Makalaurë. "You can stay a while," he says. "I will send a messenger to your father."

"Please don't, Grandfather," Makalaurë replies quickly. "I will return on my own; I can take a horse from the stables."

"As you have done before," Grandfather says wryly, brows raised. Makalaurë chews his lip and studies the floor, though he doesn't apologise. At length Grandfather shakes his head and relents. "At least be at your house in time for supper." He kisses Makalaurë's brow, presses his own against it, and smiles.

I avert my eyes; I feel as though I am intruding on a close, exclusive moment, and imagine they resent my presence. Squeezing my eyes shut, I forcefully batter the unwanted emotion down.

"Let us eat in my chamber," I say, once Grandfather has sauntered to the other end of the hall to speak with one of his advisors. Makalaurë briskly re-ties his hair into a tight knot atop his head. "Lead the way."

My room is on the second floor and boasts a broad balcony that offers a fantastic view of the city, and beyond that, of the serene expanse of the Belegaer.

With the quick movements of a lively, inquisitive bird, Makalaurë glances 'round my spacious chamber, and in his eagerness nearly presses his nose against the mosaic of Ezellohar, opposite the bed, which mesmerises the eye with its intricacy, its bold shades of black and gold. Every vein in each leaf is clear, each groove in the barks distinct. The tops of the Trees stretch into the ceiling, and rather than appearing flat, give the illusion of tapering gently into an ivory sky.

"It took me months," I say quietly. Usually I do not tell people how much effort goes into my art; it ruins the love that is put in, or so I've heard, and still believe. Yet I feel that telling Makalaurë of my labours will not sully my work.

Makalaurë remains silent. He slowly steps back from the mosaic and tilts his head to the side, then towards me. His eyes search mine; I wonder what he's looking for. When he looks back at the mosaic, eyes wide and gleaming, I feel as though he has breathed a new dimension into it.

At length he rubs his chin and says with a sigh, "How quiet it is." He slides his satchel off his shoulder and onto my desk, and without invitation plumps himself on my chair. I find I care not. I've grown oddly fond of his lack of pretension, his brazen straightforwardness – qualities that are generally sorely lacking in court. Father always says you need to dip your tongue in a pot of honey and let it soak a while before you can wag it before the king's counsellors.

"It is," I admit, "a bit _too_ quiet, at times."

"And that's why you were ambling about today," he says, fixing me with a shrewd glance. I give a solitary nod. He continues, leaning back languidly, "Sometimes I feel I could pluck out my front teeth for a bit of silence. Isn't it odd how you find Tirion boisterous, and I find it peaceful? No one ever disturbs me when I come here. Today was the first time someone asked me a string of irritating questions, as if he'd known me for years, and then casually invited me to his house."

"It is technically your house as well," I return. "You could walk in here at any unholy hour and none would turn you aside."

He shrugs, and once again laces his fingers behind his head. "Why did you sit down by me, though?" he asks earnestly. "I was reading, I was focused; my body language was closed. Usually, that screams: don't talk to me. You're not very subtle, are you?"

"You are hardly one to grouse about lack of subtlety."

Our eyes lock; the air between us is taut as an arched bowstring. In the next moment we collapse into helpless giggles, and I trundle over to the little cabinet by the bed where I keep a small stash of food and crockery. As I open the double doors, Makalaurë peers over my shoulder. "That's a good idea; I ought to do it, too. I might never leave my room again, though."

In a short while we are sitting in the balcony on wrought-iron chairs, sharing a box of crystallised figs and a pot of steaming, peppermint tea. Makalaurë blows on his tea, watches the little leaves in the glass cup twirl about like a miniature storm. He sips and breathes a long sigh, and his eyelids flutter shut as though he is lost in pleasant memories.

I decide to not disturb him. Leaning back in my chair, I take a bite out of a chewy, sweet fig, and wipe my sticky fingers on a napkin. My mother used to be my favourite companion to share this delicacy with, before her time was taken up in tending to my infant brother's demands. I don't grudge him her company, but there are things I sorely miss, not the least among them the way she would sit with me on the soft grass of the gardens and name the flowers for me: plumeria, jasmine, honeysuckle. Findekáno, my old accomplice in bold deeds, never had much patience for any of those things, and prefers the more difficult businesses of scaling cliffs and of diving off waterfalls in the hills.

The clatter of a plate assails my ears and I open my eyes, which I hadn't realised I'd closed. Makalaurë is staring at me, mouth twitching with the suppression of a smile. He looks as though he is in the throes of constructing an exquisitely mocking remark. After a taut silence he says, "I'm glad you offered me the figs. My family isn't fond of sweets."

I grin and push the finely embossed, silver box towards him. "Help yourself; there's plenty to share. Though I'm surprised about your family's tastes, given your own evident fondness for confections."

"It's true, nevertheless," he says, as he picks another fig and sinks his teeth into it. Little crystals of sugar cling to his lips, frost on rose, and he brushes them off with the back of his hand. "Father does not particularly enjoy sweetmeats; nor do my brothers. Mother does, but she's usually too absorbed with her clay and her chisel to gripe about food; you could set a plate of boiled leather before her at supper and she'd eat it without complaint. Maitimo and I tried it once, as a prank, and snatched the leather out of her hands just as she was going to bite into it." He erupts into a fit of good-natured snickers and rolls his eyes.

I pause thoughtfully, and peer into my tea. "What a remarkable mother you have." I try to picture my own slender wisp of a mother working for hours in a hot, grimy chamber with a hammer and paints, and fail. Her soft hands were made for carrying children, feeding them, spoiling them; there was hardly a time when she wasn't by my side when I was a boy. I can't quite picture it any other way. "You seem very close to your older brother."

Makalaurë's face glows, and I squeeze my hands together beneath the table. "I love him more than anyone. Growing up, I'd watch how hard he worked at everything, and put the same effort into my music – or tried to." His expression grows wistful, and he averts his eyes. "He wanted to have one special, artistic talent, but...well, I don't think he needs one. He's good at a lot of things, particularly smith-craft, and he's an excellent athlete."

A sharp knock disturbs us, and an attendant's voice floats from behind my chamber door: "Findaráto? Your father is calling you and Makalaurë downstairs to the foyer."

I frown. "Did he say why?" I call, getting up and advancing towards the entrance. Makalaurë follows, his expression apprehensive, and his fingers curl around the strap of his satchel on my table.

"He didn't."

When we reach the foyer, my eyes grow wide and my heart hammers against my ribcage. Father, who looks harried and flustered (I can tell only by the way he blinks quickly; otherwise he is immaculate), stands stiffly by the double doors, and is accompanied by none other than Curufinwë Fëanáro. He is clad in dusty riding boots, and his clothes are stained with soot and sweat, as if he has just stepped out of a forge.

He juts out his chin when he sees us, and I stifle a gasp when I glimpse his sharp, gleaming eyes. If Makalaurë's gaze holds mysteries, his father's bares its passion to Arda. I am drawn to those eyes almost inexorably and yet wish to remove myself from their scrutiny, their judgement.

Fëanáro's lips curve into a sharp smile and he spreads his arms wide. "Ah! My wayward child is returned to me," he announces, sarcasm and annoyance evident in his clear, deep voice. "How fortunate it is that I galloped to the city, where I suspected him to be." I am startled, and force my expression into neutrality; such blatant display of vexation is uncommon in Grandfather's house.

Makalaurë does not reply, but walks into his father's arms, which lock around him firmly. Then, stepping away and gripping Makalaurë's shoulders, Fëanáro mouths, "We will speak of this later." He turns to my father and says, "Thank you for your assistance."

"It is no trouble, brother," returns Father. His gaze flits somewhat nervously to Makalaurë, who still has his eyes piously lowered, as though he is in the presence of a Vala. His hands are clasped together and he twiddles his fingers like he's fumbling with rosary. Clearing his throat, Father continues, "Do not be too hard on the boy, Fëanáro. At his age, children are inclined to be – "

"He is my son, not yours. I have four children, and you have but two. Do not thrust upon me a lesson on parenting."

Father, ever the diplomat, inclines his head in a respectful bow. "I did not mean to do so. Forgive me if my words came across as didactic."

Fëanáro ignores him and turns to me. "This must be my half-nephew. So, you are the one who has kept my son from me today."

I feel my blood surge –_ half-nephew? – _and catch a quick, warning glance from Father_._ I breathe slowly through my nose, making sure to look inconspicuous so I do not offend the high prince.

Makalaurë raises his head sharply, and steps towards his father. "Findaráto had no part in my absence. I was going to come to Grandfather's house in any case, and then ride home."

"No doubt you were," returns Fëanáro. "The next time you do something like this, expect less kindness from me."

"Yes, Father."

I grit my teeth; I am sorely tempted to shake Makalaurë by the shoulders till I can hear his brain rattle in his skull; never did I expect such blind obedience from him. His eyes flit to his father's, and quickly lower again. He is ashen pale and stone-still, a statue of his mother's.

Fëanáro bends, takes his son's face in his hands, and kisses his temple. I blink, confused at his sudden tenderness. "Play for your grandfather again," he says. "This time at the palace. We'll make it a feast, and can stay on for a few days, as well. We have not done that in a while." Makalaurë's lips twitch. He lifts his chin resolutely and nods.

My father clears his throat and asks if the two would like to stay. Fëanáro says curtly, "No, thank you. We'll not take any more of your time." He puts a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder, and they leave without glancing back. The porter closes the double doors behind them with a dignified _snick_. I think he may as well have slammed it.

Father turns to me and arches an eyebrow. "I suppose we will have to ready some guest chambers," he says. Though there is mild confusion in his voice, he doesn't press me with questions, for which I am grateful. I give a noncommittal hum and scamper off.

When I reach my room, I see that the balcony doors are still conspicuously open. The box of figs lies half-finished on the wrought-iron table, and the little leaves in the now tepid, sepia tea are wilted and still; momentarily, I am tempted to tip both cups in the drain so that it does not appear as though a time of happiness was interrupted. Hunger banished, I straighten the chairs, replace the lid on the box, and clear away the crockery.

The next couple of fortnights are a blur, spent largely in idleness. I touch up my mosaic, pick at my harp, and try to concentrate on my studies. Mostly, I lie on my bed and think of daisies and figs and willows.

The sturdy pillars in the great hall are afire with strings of bright marigolds, and trestle tables groan under the weight of food and drink. The smells of wine and roast meats and saffron are suffused the air. Most of the household is present; at the high table Findekáno straddles a bench and chatters gaily to my father, who smiles and nods politely at everything the other says. Someone in the crowd, already in his cups, is singing in confident but almost offensively dissonant notes. On a podium at the south of the chamber rests a great harp – a hulking beast, set apart from the rest of the hall in its conspicuous silence as it awaits the ministrations of a musician's fingers.

Not in the mood for desultory conversation – such as tends to occur during large parties – I hold my tongue and lean back in my seat, and allow the noise and pomp and life to heighten my humour. I'm tempted to bring out my own harp and to convince Findekáno to sing a duet with me, but the chalice in his hand is half-empty and he is beginning to act silly; he would likely cast aside the idea of singing and instead brashly offer to go outside and race his horse against mine. He's done it before; it ended with him breaking his nose, though that didn't stop him from recounting the tale with gusto at every formal dinner for the next fortnight.

Smiling at the memory despite myself, I sample a slice of spiced cheese from the table and nearly spit it back in my hand when the trumpets sound the arrival of Fëanáro and of his two eldest sons. For whatever reason, the rest of the family are absent.

Seeing Makalaurë now, I realise I had etched in my mind a romanticised image of him, had woven over his features my own fancies: his jaw I had made stronger, and his lips fuller, less wide; I'd stained them the hue of wolfberries. I had arched his eyebrows and lightened his hair. With but a glance in my direction – a mere flick of his lashes – these illusions are dispelled and he is once again Makalaurë, all disproportionate features and connate grace of movement. How could I have distorted him so? I blink twice, silently reprimanding myself. Vaguely, I register that white gems are threaded like stars through his hair, which is twisted into a plait that is charming in its artlessness.

Fëanáro sidles up to him and clasps the scruff of his neck, as one would a disobedient pup, and Makalaurë allows himself to be propelled towards the high table. After customary greetings are uttered, we give our attention to the feast. While the denizens chatter and laugh and burst into songs, I pick at my food and cast furtive glances Makalaurë. As I am squeezed at the other end of the table, I cannot speak with him, but see him briefly rest his cheek on his brother's shoulder in affection. In return, Maitimo – that's his name, is it not? – pecks his temple and smiles, and the corners of his eyes pucker into crinkles.

I discreetly skim my gaze over Maitimo's form. Whereas Makalaurë is deliberately unobtrusive despite his liveliness, his older sibling radiates a vitality that demands to be noticed. The top of his head rises a hand's breadth above his father's, and his movements are strong and sure and suffused with alacrity. His deep green, silk tunic is buttoned to the collar, with not a crease in the folds, and his hair scraped into a thick tail atop his head.

At length the volume of the din is lowered, and people lounge in their seats and sip mead, and Makalaurë is called onto the podium. A hush settles over the great hall as he gives a small, polite bow to the audience and sits down on a stool beside the harp. His fingers stray across the strings, slowly at first. The instrument throbs, and Makalaurë begins to sing, and for a while nothing exists but his voice.

When the tables are cleared and the guests have begun to trickle out of the great hall, I crane my neck to find Makalaurë, but find that he has disappeared. He is probably being patted on the back and admired by people, so it may be a while before I speak with him again; I might have to wait till tomorrow, though I've an idea of calling him into my chamber at night and staying up late chatting with him. We could sit in the balcony again; I like watching the stars, and I'm fairly certain he does too. Perhaps we could filch a bottle of wine from the pantry, as well, I think, and grin to myself.

After walking aimlessly about the great hall for a time, I find to my surprise Findekáno chattering to Maitimo, who stands with an amused grin on his face and a chalice of _limpë_ in his fingers, and raises an eyebrow at the way our cousin speaks enthusiastically with his hands. They are in a corner by a window; it is almost as if they are ensconced in a cosy bubble that separates them from the rest of the world.

Presently Maitimo nods firmly and says, "I do not doubt his name will be counted among the greatest bards of Aman in another few years. To be honest, we always knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time."

I advance towards them, curious; surely they are speaking about Makalaurë. They are so engrossed in their conversation they do not notice me, but then again, I am not really intruding on their space.

"You are very proud of him," remarks Findekáno, smiling blithely.

Maitimo's own smile falters a little. "Well, yes," he says. He gives a shamefaced, staccato laugh. "Though, I suppose I am a bit petty as well." He shuffles his feet and studies the floor. "A part of me simply feels that, while he is justifiably lauded, he hasn't had to work as hard as other artists to attain that sort of fame. So much of his artistry is talent gifted by our Allfather." His free hand curls into a fist and his brow puckers. "After all, we work equally hard, I should say, and yet...sometimes I ask myself, out of bitterness, what he's done to deserve all this."

I realise Findekáno looks pale. "Fíno?" I say, and turn around. Makalaurë is standing nearby, looking at us icily. Without a word he abruptly turns his heel and strides away. After a long, tense silence I detach myself from the others and scuttle after him.

Makalaurë is an angry storm in the guest chamber, rushing back and forth and yanking things out of his cabinet and dumping a large, worn pack on his bed. He has tied his hair in a haphazard knot and has removed his tunic, along with all his jewellery. I gape at a pair of unlaced boots that have been thrown on the floor. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"Away," he replies, without looking at me.

"I can tell," I say in a placating tone. "But where?"

He slings a waterskin across his torso. "The wilds."

"_The wilds?_" I repeat stupidly, as he hefts his load onto his back and strides past me. When he reaches the door he turns around sharply, eyes flashing with a challenge, and demands, "Can you ride? Can you hunt?" He leans forward as he speaks, as though daring me to say no.

My cheeks burn, and I snap, "Of course I can ride! And I do not hunt, for I do not eat meat, as you know." In the next heartbeat I realise what he had tried to imply. Makalaurë glowers sullenly at a spot behind my shoulder. His sharp clavicles rise and fall in a steady rhythm, and I find myself oddly mesmerised by their movement. He is as the wind, wild and untamed and formidable, and I am but a leaf who is carried along his current; he has paused a moment for me.

I say, almost unconsciously, "I can ride with you."

His lips purse, and he blinks once, smoothing his brow. Surely, that is what he had wanted me to say, and I realise faintly that I had, too. He looks at me tentatively, appearing young and unsure and wretched. I hold his gaze calmly. At length he clears his throat and says, "We will need some things from the pantry. Take a cloak of mine; it will be windy where we go."

In a quarter of an hour we are in the damp stables, breeches tucked into boots and knapsacks on our shoulders. There isn't another soul in sight; everyone is at the feast.

"We'll ride from the back," says Makalaurë, as he mounts a tall mare, who snorts and shakes her head from side to side, as if in assent. He chuckles softly, and says to me, "Come."

I hesitate briefly, then haul myself onto a powerful, chestnut stallion, and clutch the leather reins. The sky rumbles lowly; a light drizzle begins to fall from dark clouds and cools the earth. I glance at Makalaurë, who is studying me with an odd, apprehensive expression. His unruly hair is bejewelled with raindrops, brighter than the gems he wore in the great hall. I open my mouth to tell him that he is mad, that he will get us into bucketfuls of hassle, but instead find myself murmuring, "Lead the way."

He draws his hood over his head and fluidly wheels his horse. "We ride south, across the hills."

"Are there roads we can take there?" I say, coming up beside him.

He gives me a sidelong look. "There are paths that are unmarked on maps. I know several – and one or two that even Father does not know of." His lips curl into a dry smile. "Mother and I have sometimes wandered the hills together, leaving the rest of our family to visit Lord Aulë." Then he frowns. "Do not think ill of my older brother."

"I don't, really," I say truthfully. "But you're hurt."

"Yes. But we all have our petty moments; heaven knows I do. We will make up, eventually." His voice wobbles a little as he says this.

I fiddle with the reigns. "They will come after us."

"I need to be alone, if only for a day or two."

"You will not be alone, Makalaurë; I am with you."

He pauses. Then he wipes his chin, says, "I think you had better start calling me Káno," and, without waiting for a response, urges his mare ahead. In something of a stupor, I follow him through the dimly lit back gardens, and mutter under my breath, "Káno. Káno," tasting the name on my tongue.

We advance briskly, neither of us speaking. Presently we urge our horses into a canter, and the _clop clop_ of their hooves on the grass sounds vague and distant, as though I am in a dream. The din of the feast behind us grows soft and eventually thins into silence.

Findaráto - Finrod  
>MakalaurëKáno - Maglor  
>Maitimo - Maedhros<br>Findekáno/Fíno - Fingon  
>Fëanáro - Fëanor<p>

Author's comments:

I peg Finrod to be someone who enjoys creating, viewing, and collecting art and artifacts. This idea was inspired mostly from Christopher Tolkien's notes in _The Lays of Beleriand_:

"...Fuilin filled with mead a great ancient silver cup that had come from Valinor:

carved in gladness,  
>in woe hoarded, in waning hope<br>when little was left of the lore of old. (2038-40)

It was of such things as that cup...that my father was thinking when he wrote of the treasures that Finrod Felagund brought out of Tirion...: 'a solace and a burden on the road'..." (p. 111).


	3. Chapter 3

Betas: Zopyrus and Ugly Duchess.

Chapter Three 

The pungent aroma of broiling rabbit meat assails my nostrils; fat spits and crackles and drips onto the ground. Here in the low hills at night, the sounds are painfully sharp. As I work a bite off my piece of buttered bread, Makalaurë sits down behind me on the damp turf and presses his back against mine. Moments pass. I cannot hear him breathe.

At length he asks softly, "Do you regret this?" His tone is tinged with concern. I turn my head and find he is looking at me, searching my gaze once more, the way he did in my chamber. His back is warm and firm and stained with sweat; so is mine.

I turn back, let my eyes sweep over the rippling hills, which are wrapped in the deep blue of the evening. I am a little afraid; I have never before lived in the wilds. My fingers fumble blindly for his, clasp them in a clammy hold, and he tenses for a moment, but presently squeezes my hand. The fear is subsiding, beginning to mingle with thrill. I whisper, "No."

When I look at him again, his eyes are brighter than the stars_._

_- finis -_


End file.
